Red
by mayorswan
Summary: Red is a lot of things, but to Emma, red is Regina. !SwanQueen!


_RED_

Red. It's the colour of Emma's strides as she walks down the empty street of Storybrooke. It's the solid _clack _upon harsh asphalt befallen her every step. The slight press of her heel crunching the empty street below and the air she's holding in her lungs. It's what dances through her mind and into the night, a silent whisper of a sigh that presses past her lips only to fade away against the chilled wind. To fade into the empty street while Emma walks faster.

She has a destination, but that doesn't stop her from reading the street signs on her way. She's not lost, but she still glances sideways as though she is. And she by no means needs to hurry, because she's not expected anywhere. Yet still she checks her watch as though she's late. Sliding her jackets sleeve up her wrist to allow the watches face to peek into the night. 

_1:32 – _It reads and the silver band is bright. Reflecting in Emma's eyes as it catches light from the moon. But Emma only sees red. Red as her jackets sleeve falls back over the time. Red leather. Red thoughts. Red in the stop sign she strides past and before she knows it; red knuckles as she raps upon the mayors door. 

Her breathing is shallow. Casting a thin fog into the air every time she exhales and her eyes are sharp. She looks dangerous. A women on a mission. A women whose form never wavers even after the door has been swung open, quietly but with a force Emma knows is born from confused frustration. 

Red. It's all Emma sees when she sees _her_. 

Red is the ire blushing Regina's cheeks as she lays eyes upon the women who woke her. Red is the way she grasps her silk shirt by the collar with one hand, holding it tight around her showing neck and blocking the entryway with the other. Her arm outstretched and palm firm against the cold wood of the doorway. 

Regina thinks Emma wants to see Henry. It's written in red across her cheeks, anger dusted over the bridge of her nose and lips tightening into a stern frown. But that's not the case and Emma doesn't wait for words to be exchanged between the two of them, because right now all she sees is red. And red isn't words. 

It's the push of actions. A strong passion that twines tight around Emma's body, squeezing her lungs and burning her flesh until she's sweeping forward. Red is the way her hand wraps around the back of Regina's neck. It's a strong movement of quick muscles and stilled breathing. The red sparking off Emma's skin like a fireworks spark popping loose of it's direction, exploding up her arm and warming her in a blush that blooms to blemish her neck. 

Red is the doubt splintering across Emma's temple a split second before she's pulling Regina into a kiss. Red is the fire that licks at her stomach the moment her lips find purchase on one very shocked mayor. Regina gasps, and red is the warm hands crashing onto Emma's hips with unsteady pressure. Trying to gain composer has Regina pressing against Emma and red is the way the normally collected mayor has stepped off balance. 

Red is the kiss breaking as lips smack apart. A coil in Emma's stomach holds tight and red is the way she lets go of Regina, she drops her hands from the woman and steps backwards. It's a quick kiss, but Regina's chest rises and falls like she can't fill her lungs, and Emma's eyes study the woman for a reaction. 

Because red is doubt. Red is passion. Red is frustration at _1:32 _in the morning. Red is Regina's lips curling to bare her teeth. It's the pause. A moment heavy upon Emma's chest. Red is the way Regina moves. Silk pyjamas creased from a mattress. Eyes dark and pooling into the night. Red is the way Regina cups Emma's face, red is the bruising kiss that follows. 

Stumbling feet and hands pulling at fabric. Emma's boots heavy on the ground, Regina tugging her inside and the front door clicking shut as Emma's head thuds against the solid wood. That's red. 

It's the shadows around them. The trepidation to their kisses. Red is how soft Regina's lips are and how unexpected it is to Emma. It's the surprise that ignites a fire in Emma's gut. Flames flicking hot when Regina breaks the kiss to nibble upon Emma's neck. 

Red is the bruise that will be there the next day. Red is bold hands. Exploring tongues. Shoes upon the staircase and broken inhales. It's the way Emma throws Regina against the closing bedroom door. The air that's forced from her lungs. Fumbling buttons and hands brushing against hands in the desperate need to shed clothes. It's Emma's jacket on the carpet and Regina's hushed breathing. 

Red is exposed flesh and the tip of a tongue. Red is the trail Emma kisses down a soft neck, feeling a pulse flutter rapidly beneath her lips. It's the burning of Regina's body pushing closer. The strong hands that find a place on Emma's hips and guide her backwards. Red is the control Regina takes. And the contact Emma keeps between them as her lips continuously map the mayors neck. Jaw. Collarbone. 

Red is the way Regina breaks for air. Hot breath hitting the side of Emma's jaw, and red is Emma's hands running through dark locks. Gripping tightly. Pulling Regina back to her forcefully. Red is the kiss reconnecting. The push of Regina so that Emma falls backward. It's the mattress beneath Emma, cool sheets upon her heated flesh and then it's Regina's hands gripping her wrists above her head. Regina straddling her with steady movements but uncontrolled breathing. It's kisses that become nips and twisted bedding. 

Flesh burning up but trailing goosebumps leaving marks. Teeth grazing over pulse points. Rough kisses made by soft lips and gentle hands apprehensive yet firm. Regina's body pressing against Emma's and the delicious warmth it leaves. Wanton groans. Quiet sighs. Breathless grunts that leave their throats as Emma flips Regina onto her back. That's red. 

Red is Regina's nails, scratched marks dug into Emma's shoulder blades. It's how Emma touches warm skin and the reaction she gets. It's how Regina's hands tangle in Emma's light hair, pulling strands taut as her palms smooth down the back of Emma's neck and press against firm shoulders. It's red. Every touch is red. 

Red is passion. Excitement and lust. It's wrong and wild, unrestrained beyond explanation and Emma needs it. She needs the fire in her stomach. She needs the energy that shoots down her spine, races across her skin and has her mouth dry but her palms clammy. Red is her heart. The solid beat it thumps. Red is like a ribbon made of silk, wrapping around Emma in knots. Red is anger. Frustration. _Want_. 

Red is a lot of things, but to Emma, red is Regina.


End file.
